Page 20

19

ELLIOT

“S top fidgeting,” Sarah hisses as we enter the arena. “You look amazing.”

I smooth the jersey for the hundredth time, hyper-aware of the name displayed across my back. “I feel like everyone is staring.”

“They are,” Sarah confirms cheerfully. “But because you look hot, not because they’re judging you.”

I seriously doubt that, but I straighten my shoulders anyway. The jersey, paired with dark jeans and ankle boots, looks better than I’d expected. Casual but polished, not trying too hard but clearly making a statement.

The family section is already half-full when we arrive—wives, girlfriends, and children of Phoenix players gathering for the game. Some faces I recognize from my previous life as Jason’s wife; others are new in the three years since I last attended a game.

“Elliot?” A voice calls from a few rows up. “Oh my god, it is you!”

Melissa Cooper, still perfect in designer athleisure, waves enthusiastically. “I heard rumors you might be here tonight, but I didn’t believe it! And...” Her eyes widen as she registers the jersey. “Oh. OH. Well! This is a development!”

“Hi, Melissa,” I say, forcing a polite smile. “Yes, I’m back in the hockey world. Somewhat.”

“And apparently dating our new defenseman,” she adds, eyes gleaming with the prospect of fresh gossip. “David says he’s quite the catch. Very different from Jason.”

The way she says it—almost apologetic, as if Jason was somehow defective merchandise I got stuck with—makes my jaw clench. But I keep my expression neutral. “Yes, he is.”

“How did you two meet? Was it before or after his trade back to Phoenix? Is it serious?” The questions come rapid-fire, barely disguised as friendly interest.

“We’re neighbors,” I say simply. “And still getting to know each other.”

“But wearing his jersey already,” she notes with raised eyebrows. “That’s quite a statement.”

“Yes, it is,” I agree, offering nothing more.

Sarah, bless her, intervenes. “We should find our seats. The teams will be coming out for warm-ups soon.”

“Of course, of course.” Melissa gestures vaguely to the section behind her. “Most of us are sitting up there. You should join us! I’m sure everyone would love to catch up.”

“Maybe later,” I demur, following Sarah to our assigned seats—thankfully several rows away from the main cluster of team wives.

“That wasn’t so bad,” Sarah says once we’re seated. “Only mild vulture vibes from Melissa.”

“She’s already texting everyone,” I predict, watching Melissa’s fingers flying over her phone screen. “The entire section will know within minutes.”

“Let them know,” Sarah says firmly. “You have nothing to be ashamed of.”

She’s right, I know. But years of conditioning—of being the perfect, discreet hockey wife who never caused drama—are hard to break. I take a deep breath, focusing on the ice where arena workers are making final preparations.

When the Phoenix team skates out for warm-ups, my eyes automatically find number 43. Brody moves with the fluid grace of an elite athlete, his power evident even in the casual skating patterns of the warm-up routine. I try to imagine how he’ll react when he sees me in his jersey. Will he be pleased? Surprised? Worried that I’m making too public a statement too soon?

He glances up at our section during a break in drills, scanning the crowd. When his gaze lands on me, I see his eyes widen slightly in recognition. Then—as he realizes what I’m wearing—something shifts in his expression. Pride, pleasure, and something more possessive flash across his features before skates over and puts his glove up against the glass.

“God, the look on his face!” Sarah says unnecessarily after he’s gone, practically vibrating with glee. “Tommy owes me twenty bucks.”

“Your marriage is weird,” I inform her, but I’m smiling too, a strange exhilaration building in my chest. I did this. I made this choice. I’m here, in Brody’s jersey, not hiding anymore.

The warm feeling lasts until Miami takes the ice for their warm-up. My stomach tightens as I scan the blue jerseys, knowing I’ll find the one name I’ve avoided for three years.

Jason. Number 91. Still as confident on the ice as ever, his skating smooth and sure. I wonder if he knows I’m here yet. If the hockey gossip network has already informed him that his ex-wife is in the stands.

I get my answer moments later when he breaks from the Miami warm-up pattern and skates to the side of the rink nearest our section. His gaze finds me unerringly, as if he knew exactly where to look. I watch as his expression changes—recognition, shock, then a cold fury as he registers the jersey I’m wearing.

“Well, well, well,” he calls, loud enough for me and several rows around us to hear. “Look who’s back in the building. New accessory, Elliot?”

I say nothing, refusing to engage. Sarah, beside me, is less restrained.

“Fuck off, Martinez,” she calls cheerfully. “Go practice for getting your ass kicked tonight.”

His eyes narrow, but a teammate calls him back to the warm-up, forcing him to skate away. Not before he makes a dismissive gesture in my direction, though—a flick of his hand like he’s brushing away something insignificant.

“You okay?” Sarah asks quietly as he rejoins his team.

“Fine.” And surprisingly, I am. Three years ago, that encounter would have devastated me—left me shaking and near tears. Now I just feel... calm. Detached, almost. Jason’s opinion of me, his approval or disapproval, no longer matters.

I catch a glimpse of Brody watching the exchange from across the ice, his posture stiff with what I recognize as protective concern. He takes a step in our direction, but a teammate intercepts him, steering him toward the tunnel as warm-ups conclude.

“That could have been worse,” Sarah observes as both teams leave the ice. “Though I have a feeling we haven’t seen the last of Jason’s tantrum.”

“Probably not,” I agree. “But I’m not worried.”

And I realize I mean it. Whatever Jason might say or do, it can’t hurt me anymore. Not when I’m here on my terms, making my own choices. Wearing Brody’s jersey not because I’m trying to be the perfect hockey girlfriend, but because I want to make a statement—to Jason, to the hockey world, and most importantly, to myself.

I am Elliot Waltman. I survived Jason Martinez. I rebuilt my life. And now I’m reclaiming my right to be here, to move forward, to explore whatever this thing with Brody might become.

Let Jason glare. Let the hockey wives gossip. Let the whole arena see me in Brody’s jersey.

I’m done hiding.